{I recently became a Godmother to one of my dearest friend’s baby girl, Mya, whose initials spell MUD. Having been through a period of time which has brought to focus the idea of growing up and being responsible I have been thinking a lot about what being a Godmother might mean. I was struck by how strong my feelings for this little being that I have not yet met are, how in her I understand something of the future and the desire to keep the future safe. This is of course for her, and for her beloved mother.}

Little One, born of love and circumstance,
An apple seed swelling and dancing quietly in your own ocean,
A perfect moment in time; captured in peach soft skin, furzed, downy, sweet as milk.
Your name is Mud, we shall call you Mya, but really you’re from the earth, from the skies, a child of the sweet spring rain, the first gently opening crocus,
A gift of sudden sunshine after a squalling shower.

This is your world. Your tiny fingers, your nails the shells from some distant beach, the bow of your lips, the arch of each elegant foot, describes the Universe in its entirety; nothing is more true and eloquent than your expression.
You are, Mya, love written in flesh. Surprise and the lines of the future are caught in sweep of your lashes.
One day I shall know you, Little Being, we shall figure the world together,
I shall spin stories of experience and all the while stifle my gasps when I discover that I am learning more from you than I thought possible.
One day we shall stomp the cliff tops together watching the wielding birds far below riding the crests of the sunlit sea.
We shall let the wind blow back our hair and shout with joy at the scudding sky.
One day you will fall asleep with your tearstained head on my shoulder, your rebellious dreams tangling in my hair as I sigh and reach to phone your mother.
One day, God forbid it, we shall we be parted.

But for now, little Mud, Mya Una, sleep your milky sleep and dream your growing dreams.
You are loved, bound by love, held by love, free in love.
The spring will pass, and pass again. You and the flowers will bloom and grow leggy in the sunshine.
Washing will dry in the garden, the blackbirds will sing. Time will wheel ever onwards. Everything will change, and change again.
All, except love, Little One, that remains constant, the gentle web that binds us all in freedom, the unbreakable ties that allow us to grow.